Читать книгу Charles Augustus Fenton - Alana Whiting - Страница 8

The Newport Rising occurred not three months prior to my birth. Nearly 4000 Chartist sympathisers marched into the town of Newport intent on liberating fellow Chartists that were rumoured to be held prisoner. Their belligerent protest was equally fuelled by the rejection from the House of Commons for their petition and the indignant jailing of Henry Vincent. Vincent was a popular orator and advocate of not only universal suffrage but more importantly, the Chartist petition. His charge was for making inflammatory remarks and conspiracy. He was a man that fought for the workers and his imprisonment was grossly unfair according to his sympathisers. The organising for this uprising was kept secret for weeks, as they strategically planned to march in three converging main columns under the cover of darkness. However, whispers reached the ears of parliament who quickly drafted the company of the 45th regiment to Newport and prepared them for battle.

The rebels’ plans fell apart because of unexpected delays when one of their armies of fighters arrived late. The men stood waiting for them in the pelting rain and watched the protective cloak of darkness soon turn into watery daylight. The wretched army marched downtrodden and bedraggled, sullen from the long delays and sodden clothing. Their vision of a strong and triumphant victory was swiftly turning into a shambles.

As they assembled in front of the Westgate Hotel, a simmering hush passed over the revolutionaries. No one knows what really happened next, but a gunshot rang out. This was considered to have been perpetrated by the rebels who, even then, were innocent to the fact of the soldiers hiding in the hotel. The soldiers, with adrenaline pumping in their veins, exploded with gunfire and splattered the rebels with bullets. They didn’t stand a chance, with bodies lying covered in blood-soaked clothing within minutes. Shocked and overcome by this vicious onslaught, many rebels dropped their weapons and fled, with only the foolhardy left behind. Twenty-one people died during the revolt as they charged the Westgate Hotel. It was a massacre.

The Chartist petition had over one million signatures and it held six demands: 1) All men to have the vote, 2) voting by secret ballot, 3) Parliamentary elections to be held annually, not every five years, 4) constituencies should be of equal size, 5) Members of Parliament to be paid, and finally 6) the property qualification for becoming a Member of Parliament should be abolished.

This new law would have greatly inconvenienced my family as we had significant land and title at Wellesborne. The Fentons therefore were entitled to vote and participate at Government in a manner ensuring our civilised prosperity should continue for generations to come. With the added protection of the Corn Law disabling any free trade, our future was assured and my inheritance sacrosanct. The working class needed to realise their station in life otherwise there would be pandemonium. It was for their ignorant benefit ultimately.

My father was a lawyer of some renown, so he was hurriedly summoned to London to assist at the trial after the Newport Rising. The audacity of John Frost and his kind was tantamount to treason and charged as such. It was only by the grace of God that they were not hanged, drawn and quartered in Monmouth. My father was an integral part in this successful resolution. However, his frequent travels to and from our estate to London fatigued him and my mother grew to despise the Chartists.

On the summer of my third year I scrambled behind my parents with nanny and pram in tow as they strolled along the River Dene. Charles Senior was finally given leave to stay at Fenton Manor with his beloved family and attend to his estate. Thinking back, I realise my father must have been weary and had probably grown somewhat withdrawn from the onslaught by these exasperating working classes continually fighting for more. Their damnable insolence was quite intolerable to both him and his colleagues. Those addlepated anarchists had no idea what it took to run a country. And yet it was becoming harder for the upper classes to ignore the growing undercurrent of disgruntled labourers. My father bore the strain on his face as he held my mother’s arm and stared stoically forward. Even though I was a mere child at the time, I can still recall his frustration.

‘My dear Elizabeth, you would not believe what these imbeciles are coming up with now. Some Irish protestant called O’Connor is conjuring up a crazy idea that all the poor people pool together their funds and buy some land. Just like that. Without thought for who would actually receive the land and farm it. They think they will just arrive there and the soil will be tilled and harvested magically, and all will prosper and become exceedingly rich.’

‘Well, that’s ridiculous, Charles. Are they thinking they will overtake the established farms and undercut our contracts? What a perfectly silly idea! Our family have been dealing with the suppliers for generations. They could hardly expect to be as highly regarded as the Fentons. What does Walton say of all this?’ she said.

‘It takes experience and good management to ensure that the workers are productive and efficient. They wouldn’t have the slightest idea what is involved with running an estate. Walton has kept our crops and lands in good order because he is an experienced farmer AND he knows his place. He laughed when I told him what O’Connor had in mind. In fact his exact words were, “Let them come, sir. Once they get a bit of dirt under the nails they’ll be running right back where they came from.” And I’m inclined to believe him. We have nothing to worry about, my dear. It’s just so damned vexing to deal with.’

‘The Fenton Estate has been here for generations and will continue to grow for future generations. Magda has told me so only last week. She has foretold that Charles Junior will be a most successful man and that the Fenton name will be famous for years to come.’

Charles frowned and looked around hurriedly. ‘Really darling, do be careful what you say. That sort of comment could be overheard and interpreted in rather a poor light.’

‘Oh pish, Charles, you worry too much. She hasn’t failed us yet, has she?’ And with that, Elizabeth turned to pick me up and cuddle me in her arms.

‘All the same you must be vigilant to the ears around you. There are many who would like to possess our properties. The merest sniff of a scandal could be the undoing of us.’ Charles Senior glared at Meg the nanny walking behind them, who blanched and stepped further back from the couple clasping the pram handle tightly.

I gleefully burrowed close to my mother’s bosom. Though I was no longer suckling from her I still found great security and satisfaction close to her breast. She squeezed me tight and kissed my hair affectionately. My father’s face softened at the scene and he stroked my cheek, his hand so close to my mother’s breast as to make her blush and flash him an amatory eye. He caught her expression with a start and smiled bemusedly before reluctantly moving his hand away. Now was not the appropriate time. She continued to carry me as they strolled, until my robust weight caused her to transfer me to my father. Before too long I fell asleep, cocooned in my father’s solid arms. He called Meg over, who hurriedly prepared the pram and tucked me in before chasing after the couple continuing on their walk.

That evening I fidgeted and grizzled as Meg tried to feed me my supper. Her repeated attempts were met with a cantankerous swipe from my diminutive hands. Each time the spoon neared my mouth I would size it up and push the offending matter back vigorously over her top. To her credit she showed extraordinary patience; that is until I successfully deposited a plop of mash directly into her face.

‘Right then, Master Fenton, bedtime it is!’ She stood up, wiped the muck from her cheek with her apron and fetched a hot cloth. I was then sponged and changed with professional exactness and delivered to my cot. She did not read me a nursery story as was the usual custom, but instead closed the door and stormed to her room.

I wailed and squealed but to no avail. My parents’ room was in the other quarter and they were completely oblivious to my distress. In fact, they were happily occupied in each other’s arms. I flailed my arms and kicked my feet outraged at my sudden abandonment and was met with silence. I was practically goggle-eyed with indignation that my usually tender nanny had left me to the darkness of the night. My vocabulary was limited so I was only able to communicate my disgust by crying and howling. And in this I was master. Her maltreatment of me ensured I remained unbendable in my goal to reach my mother and father. I knew their love was boundless and they would make me safe and happy again, and so with that in mind I was confident of their forthcoming arrival. All I needed to do was to make them hear me and they would come running; therefore I threw everything into my tiny lungs and expelled it out of my mouth. The result was deafening and if angels were watching over my bed that evening they would have flown back to Heaven covering their tortured ears.

The door to my room remained impassive. No sign of any movement whatsoever. My nanny had retired to her bed and stuffed her ears with cotton wool to drown out my misery. She had dealt with my irritated self all week and was furious with my abnormally bad behaviour. My parents didn’t help with their constant fussing and cuddling of me, tending to my every whim. If it wasn’t for her penurious state she would have resigned six months ago. She was categorically denied any type of physical punishment towards me, which was made quite clear when they interviewed her for the position. The merest smack on my backside or tap on my hand would be immediately followed by her dismissal. They had let the previous nanny go for exactly that reason. Therefore I knew in my own childish way that I was in charge of her and could do what I wanted, making this current situation rather untenable. I screamed and cried with baby tears dribbling down my flushed cheeks. I kicked my feet as if I were drowning, gasping for fresh air and sobbing in anguished despair. As each minute passed there became a growing realisation that I would not be saved and that my parents could not hear me. My reddened blotchy face was a picture of woe as I tired from my exertions and gradually simmered down. After a few more snuffles and whimpers I eventually nestled down to sleep, cuddling my snuggle blanket and sucking my thumb.